


Dead I live

by TinyThoughts



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Geralt is a good friend, Gore, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Monster of the Week, More tags to be added, Necromancers, Panic Attacks, Pining, Torture, Violence, Wraith, and Geralt doesnt know, now meet undead jaskier, slow healing, this is some dark shit, undead jaskier, we have seen necromancer jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27764215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyThoughts/pseuds/TinyThoughts
Summary: ...and dead I love....Jaskier is captured and killed.And resurected.He does not know why, but a necromancer keeps him alive, and he dares not tell Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 75
Kudos: 272





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it finally comes!! It will be rather dark but I aim for it to be sweet as well!   
> I am in need of motivation so feel free to yell at me in the comments or on tumbl <3  
> Please enjoy!

The pain is unbearable. His face is beaten bloody, at least three ribs are broken, his legs are cut and stabbed and beat until unrecognition. The worst pain is his fingers. Bent and broken, one entire digit on his pinkie missing. All his nails are gone, his hard earned calluses cut away. He will never be able to play again.   
There probably won’t be much of anything anymore. His most recent session with his torturers earned him a broken collarbone and bleeding ears. They are ringing loudly and he can feel hot blood dripping from his earlobe.

But none of that will matter for long.

The woman that stands above him is hooded. Her matted brown hair touches his face as she leans over him. She pulls his arms above his head, binds them in chains. He doesn’t have any energy to resist anyway, he just wants it all to end.  
The contrast of her hair against his face and the cold chain digging into his chafed skin is making his head spin.   
It could also be the blood loss but here’s to being optimistic.   
The next thing he knows is a knife scraping against his ribs. Shoved down hard, plunged into him with cold anger. And there is some kind of chanting. His limbs spasm, the darkness and the cold coming in fast.  
There is a flash of purple.

And then nothing

~

There is air. Pushing its way inside his lungs.   
Cold. Cold everywhere. Burning, spreading upwards, downwards, inwards. Everything burns. With the new air he screams, hoarse, harsh. He finds he has fingers, and they are clenching, unclenching. Stretching, reaching and then closing up again. Seeking a comfort that he knows will never be there.  
His heart beats painfully. Once. Twice. He gasps, he twists, he turns.

And then he opens his eyes. The world is hidden by a shade of grey. His eyes are so, so dry. He blinks, blinks again. The ringing in his ears comes back, slowly creeping up on him. No. He was supposed to be free.  
The grey softens and he can see darkness past it. It’s not entirely dark, he realizes. There must be a torch somewhere, lighting up the stone ceiling far above.  
He blinks again. The ringing in his ears settles into the background and he can pick up new sounds. His own raspy breathing, his own unsteady heartbeat.  
And that chanting.   
Then it burns again. Jaskier screams.   
The world around him fades and again there is darkness.

~

Something is itching. There is a pressure around his ribcage, and something there is itching. He lifts a hand to do something about it but he finds that it is heavy. He struggles on, drags that hand towards his chest. His senses are muted, he senses more than he actually feels the bandages when his hand gets there.  
Lamely he scratches. It doesn’t help. He scratches harder but it only gets worse. The itching spreads and it intensifies and fuck. It hurts.  
His breath comes faster, panic is setting in. His heartbeat races and that hurts too. The muscles in his chest aches as they expand, working to keep up with his frantic breathing. His other hand scrabbles up towards his chest, he throws his head back and a sound escapes his throat.  
Hands grab his, hot against his skin, and fear grabs him, tears in him.  
“Jaskier. Shh. It’s alright.” A voice, low and rumbling, somewhere above him. It sounds far away, it is hard to determine over the ringing. His hands are pushed to his sides, his skin is screaming at him. There was something familiar about that voice.  
The hands stays over his, holding him down firmly. Jaskiers fingers twitch and shake, but his body is too heavy to fight. A scream claws in his throat, fightin to get out.  
There is a thumb stroking his hand in soft, light circles.   
Geralt. This is Geralt.  
Is it real this time?

He can’t tell how the time passes. It might be seconds or hours, but the itching slowly recedes. Jaskiers vision returns, slowly. The grey mist is almost gone. He blinks.  
That looks like stars. It couldn’t possibly be stars.  
So many times he looked up at that cracked stone ceiling imagining them. And the sound of a campfire, crackling and popping as it devours the firewood. A friend just outside the line of his vision, watching over him.   
But it was always stone. Always clanking chains. Dripping of moist along the walls. The silence between the cuts, his screams.  
Is it really the stars? 

He draws in a shaking breath, cold night air filling his lungs. Gods, it even smells like a night sky. He must be dead. Should be dead.  
There is no way he would be able to get out of there.  
There is movement somewhere on his right. His body tense up, ready for the pain.  
“Jaskier.”  
Geralt.  
The familiar ache builds and his dry eyes does their best to tear up. He bites his lip, and his dry skin cracks and a drop of blood pushes through it.  
He won’t allow himself to say his name.  
“Are you awake now?” There is movement again and someone leans over him. White hair falling forward over pale skin. Jaskier blinks. That scar over his eye looks new.  
His face blocks out the view of the would-be stars.  
“Hello.” Geralt says, Jaskier can see his lips moving but the voice is far away, behind the ringing. “Thank fuck you are alive.”   
Is he though?  
There is still that cold, burning sensation. The itch between his ribs. The- wait. Fuck. The knife. There was a knife between his ribs, and a woman, and purple.  
He starts hyperventilating again, straining against his bandages.  
“Nononono Jaskier, easy, deep breaths. You are safe. Breathe.” Geralt's hand is on his shoulder and it’s burning hot. Jaskier is so cold. His heart is pumping hard, but it’s not enough and it gets dark around the edges.

Jaskier really did die. He must have. The woman. She must have done something. She stabbed him, killed him, and brought him back. There are no stars. But there is a pull, almost like a string tied around his heart in a tight, tight knot. He can feel her presence.

The stars return. The white strands, the burning hand on his shoulder. Now that he feels the bond, the string rhythmically pulling at his heart, making it beat, he is calm.  
He knows.

Jaskier did indeed not come out of there alive.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not a heartbeat. It’s a tug. He can feel her fingers pulling the string.

He doesn’t tell Geralt.  
Geralt thinks the chill in his skin comes from the shock, from the ‘trauma’. That first night of wakefulness Geralt takes care of him. They don’t talk. Jaskier because he can’t, Geralt because… well. He’s Geralt. 

No fevers takes him. No infections. There is barely any fluid from the wounds, barely any blood. Geralt says nothing about it, but Jaskier knows it’s the string around his heart, iron grip on it’s precious blood.  
His crooked fingers are a problem. He remembers the skin being peeled away, he remembers the glint of the knife and blood and the ringing.  
But his skin is there, lined and pink and new.  
The moment Jaskier is well enough to move, Geralt puts him on Roach. They ride every other day. Geralt wants him to rest, to heal, and Jaskier hasn't found his voice yet to protest. Slowly they move across the continent. 

Geralt is looking for a healer. They find one in a hamlet, a wise old woman with strong herbs and soft magic. She takes one look at him and puts him to bed. Jaskier is so tired of resting, the rhythmic pulling so loud. The purple light when he closes his eyes.  
The healer looks him over, every naked inch of him. She finds his scars, the missing digit on his pinkie. She finds the big one, badly healed, on his chest. Where he was stabbed. It anchors him somewhat to have it. She finds nothing wrong with him physically, and she is baffled. And she finds magic on him she doesn’t recognize. But it doesn’t matter for now. 

For every day that passes Jaskier feels better, stronger.  
The air is getting warmer, summer approaching, but Jaskier is still cold. He doesn’t feel cold, not the sort of shivering and clacking of teeth one might expect. Just, cold. Dull. Muted.  
He still tense up sometimes. He still tense up around knives, the ringing in his ears rising up to drown everything else. But the tugging isn’t unsettling anymore. It becomes familiar, a new beat to form himself around.  
They stay with the healer. She insists to keep an eye on him, because even if his visible wounds are healing, there are hidden ones.

One summer night he sits in front of the fireplace. It is lit, despite the heat of the season, Jaskier likes to feel the heat on his skin, even if it doesn’t sink in. And they return to him. His words, his songs. It’s like the breaking of a dam. He sits in the light of the fire, all alone. His mouth falls open and out tumbles a song. It’s hoarse, more of a croak really, after all this time. And of all the songs in his repertoar, it is the Fishmongers fucking Daughter. He has to smile, and for the first time in a long, long time, he lets his tears fall.  
Fishmongers fucking Daughter pour out of him and he feels himself coming back. He sings it three times, and then, just because he can, he sings Toss a coin. It’s not the same without a lute in his arms but it’s alright. His stiff fingers pluck the air out of habit, timing it with the tugging beat of his dead heart. He wonders what it would be like to play now, with a piece of his hand missing. He studies his hands, the white lines that are barely there anymore.  
Maybe being dead isn’t the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support <3 it means the world and keeps me writing!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW panic attack

As summer passes, he start to feel more like himself again. The healer keeps a close eye on him, but the Path calls to Geralt and Jaskier refuses to be left behind. They buy him a horse from one of the farmers. One secure calm thing and he names it Wilk. The gelding had a name, but it was such a boring and unfitting name. And who would Jaskier be if he accepted boring.   
No, that’s not who he was. Is. It is a strange thing to come to terms with, being dead but also not dead. And now that he has taken his first step, now that his voice is returned, he feels better about it. More like himself.  
Stradling Wilks wide back they set out on the Path again. With every sturdy step taken back out he feels it. The songs, the melodies and harmonies. He smiles, and Geralt watches him from Roach. It feels like home.

Jaskier sings under the stars. He plucks imaginary strings and he sings to the tugging of his heart and the crackling from the fire. Leaning against a tree, cracking nuts open with the butt of his knife, Geralt watches him. He watches Jaskier a lot these days, but it’s understandable. After that fucking mountain, after Jaskier being taken, almost dying.   
Well. He did die. But Geralt doesn’t know that. He thinks he dragged Jaskier from death's gaping maws. In a sense, he did.   
“We should find you a new lute.” Geralt comments suddenly. Jaskier had been thinking the same thing, but it still takes him by surprise.  
“Are you saying you miss my playing?” Jaskier meant it to tease, but he finds he is curious.   
“I do.” Is all Geralt offers, cracking another nut open and collecting the shells in a neat little pile.   
”I'm not sure if I can” Jaskier admits silently. He looks at his hands. They look almost like normal except for his little finger on the right hand. But they are too smooth.   
”Geralt. They broke my fingers. They cut away my calluses. And that might not sound like a lot but…” Jaskier trails off, letting his fingers search his hands. ”It will feel different. Sound different.”  
They sit in silence for a few moments, each Lost in their own world. It’s Easy to fall back into that dark hole, to sink deeper and deeper until the present is out of sight, out of reach.   
Jaskier blinks hard, shakes his head, lets go of his too smooth hands. He looks at Geralt, an anchor in the whirlpool of his mind trying to pull him under. That happened a lot in the beginning. He is better at it now.   
”The next town is only a few days ride away. If you want to we can look for a lute. Or any instrument.”  
Jaskier thinks about the offer. Geralt values his peace and his coin. For Jaskier not to have an instrument means that Geralt will have peace but none of them will have coin. Unless Jaskier leaves. Or get left behind… Or gets taken again.

The next thing he knows is Geralt's face in front of him, his hands on his shoulders. There is a strange blackness around the edges, and he blinks. The ringing in his ears is so loud.  
“Breath, Jaskier. Easy. Stay with me, alright? You are safe.”  
Geralt takes one of Jaskiers hands and places them on his chest. Slowly he takes a deep breath, Jaskier can feel it under his hand. He realizes he is panting, or probably hyperventilating. Oh.   
He tries to regain control, tries to focus. He stares at Geralt, afraid to even blink in case he will be gone and that fucking cracked ceiling will be there again. Geralt's hand is warm over his, and as if he knows he pulls it upwards, so that Jaskiers cold, smooth fingertips can reach the soft, vulnerable skin of his throat. It helped before, when panic took him. To feel the warmth and a real heartbeat. To convince himself that it is real.  
“Breath with me Jaskier. That’s it.” Geralt is so good to him, so patient. Jaskier tries to match his breathing, tries to calm that frantic pulling on his heartstring. He wonders if his sorceress can feel it. If it makes her smile.  
“No. Focus on me.” Jaskiers eyes snap back to Geralt. Purposefully he breathes in deep, slow. And he breathes out, the air hitting Jaskiers face and neck.   
It helps.

For a long while they sit there. Geralt pulls him out of the darkness, and when he feels the tight grip of fear eases up, he tilts his head back and watches the stars.  
“I hate this.” He whispers hoarsely. Geralt rearranges them so that Jaskier leans back against his chest. The warmth, the breathing, the smell of him. It’s soothing.  
“It will get better.” Geralt promises. “Maybe not tomorrow or even next year. But it will.”  
Jaskier trusts him. It took them a long time to get here. Another night like this, another fight with the dark and cold, and Geralt finally started talking. He told him about the trials of the grass, the cost of becoming who he is. The years he and his brothers spent fighting not only beasts, but themselves. So yes, Jaskier believes him.   
His head rests at Geralt's shoulder, gazing up at the night sky.  
“I was never any good at flute.” Jaskier murmurs and he smirks when he can feel Geralt chuckle behind him.  
“Ever considered bagpipes?” Geralt asks.  
“I like to live, thank you very much.” Jaskier retorts and pinches Geralt's thigh. Which is something he is getting to terms with. Not being alive but to live.  
“Fine. How about a harmonica. That will keep you from talking all the time at least.”  
“Oii!” Jaskier elbows Geralt in the ribs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that feeling when you wake up, and suddenly you just know what to write?  
> I had that today. Im so friggin excited.
> 
> Today Im playing nice. Next time, uh.... well... :)

It takes some time to track down a town with a decent music store. Novigrad would be the obvious choice but they are far away, and they still don’t know exactly who took Jaskier in the first place and if they are still looking.  
The store is not big. The ceiling is low and is covered in displays for different instruments, stacks of note paper, books on theory, little jars with oils and rosin. A good word for the shop would be cluttered. Geralt pokes Jaskier in the side and points to one of the topmost shelves. A sad, forgotten bagpipe sticks out over the edge and Jaskier has to smirk.  
The shopkeeper is a middle aged lady, she has woodflakes in her hair and she smiles awkwardly.  
“Good afternoon.” Jaskier greets. “We are looking for a new instrument, preferably a lute.”  
“How many strings would you like?I can take an order if you pay enough, but I have one almost done with thirteen. Just need to put the last touch of paint on it.”  
“I would love to see it, if I may.” Oh dear mothers, she makes the instruments herself. Jaskier feels a flicker of interest, a shadow of his former self rising for the occasion. Just a flicker, but it’s comforting no the less to still feel things other than cold numbness.  
The woman nods and disappears into the back, probably to the workshop. Geralt touches his shoulder to Jaskiers, smiling softly.  
“You sure you don’t want the bagpige?”  
“I think you are right, my dear witcher, I should give it a go. I'm sure I would make a fortune on Toss a coin alone.” Geralt cringes, and Jaskier gives a victorious smile.  
“Please don’t.” Geralt mutters sullenly as the shopkeeper returns. She carries with her a lute, and despite being unfinished looking utterly beautiful. He gets pointed to a small chair by the wall and she hands over the lute like it’s a baby. Jaskier couldn’t agree with her more.  
He settles it in his lap, caress the neck of it, adjusting for once again being allowed to play.  
It’s been so long.  
It feels right, the weight of it, the shape, the soft smell of fresh wood and paint. Likely the instrument will cost a fortune, something he doesn’t have right now, but at least he is allowed to try it out.  
He plucks the strings, tries out a melody. His fingertips sting a little when he changes chord. The sound is clean, it rings out nicely. He can tell when the strings have a high quality, he closes his eyes and smiles, lost in his own bubble.  
When he surfaces again the shopkeeper is staring at him.  
“Who _are_ you?” She asks, which is not the question he expected. He blinks in surprise and rests his hands on the strings.  
“I'm Jaskier. Dandelion for some. Poet and bard from Oxenfurt.” Jaskier can see Geralt roll his eyes behind her back and realizes, oh, maybe he shouldn’t say too much. But her jaw drops, eyes widen.  
“Jaskier, _the_ Jaskier? Jaskier behind _The Ballad of the Raven Maid_? Jaskier, who wrote _Silken Strands of Summer_?”  
Another something he didn’t expect. Pride swells in him, that his creations are so widespread. He rises from the chair and gives her an elegant bow. He is not sure he can, but she blushes deeply enough for them both.  
“That would be me, my lady. I'm humbled by such a fine craftswoman as yourself know of my work.”  
She opens and closes her mouth a few times, so he sits down while she collects herself, plucks out a tune.  
“It is indeed a lovely instrument.” He tells her, falling into his role as a showman. “How much would you like for it? When it is finished of course. I must confess to you, I might not be able to pay it all at once.”  
All at once she changes, fleeing into her knowledge as a business woman. He doesn’t haggle very much with her, and they agree on a fine price and a promise to come by with a collection of his poems next time he is in the area. She needs to finish the painting before he can take it, so it will be a few days before they can bring it with them.

Returning to the inn, Geralt finds a notice board. There is a contract up for a wraith by the graveyard, and so they have found a way to occupy themselves for the time being. For once, Jaskier doesn’t beg to come. Being around this many people again is nice, but also exhausting. They part, Geralt going to find the town's huntmaster and Jaskier for a small visit to a bookstore nearby. He needs to stock up on paper and ink again.  
A sense of normality settles in him, doing familiar tasks even if it is in a new town. And when he returns to the inn where they hired rooms, takes a nap before meeting Geralt for dinner.

When Jaskier wakes up, his face is pressed towards the ground, pebbles and plants digging into his cheek. His lungs are burning, his eyes are dry, and he can’t move.  
Something is very wrong.  
The tugging on his heart is violent, painful.

He is alone in the middle of a forest, and the sun is setting behind the trees.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ladies are introduced! Finally!!  
> Thanks a billion to @Mayastormborn for helping me look through this before I publish!  
> Keep your eyes open, the plot is starting...

Long nails tap against the wood. Tap, tap, tap. Rhythmically, a steady beat.  
Yennefer lifts an eyebrow, looking at the woman across from her. She has long, dark brown hair. Her knuckles are pale, her skin a shade the color of old bones, but smooth and flawless. The finger that is currently tap, tap, tapping against the table has a thin thread tied around it. Her nails are perfect, painted dark red.  
Her eyes are as deep and rich in color as her hair. Her nose is small and her cheeks are hollowed out, three freckles in a small triangle below her left eye. Tap, tap, tap.  
It’s getting annoying, like one of the magical clocks in the kingdom of Aedirn, always entering her mind and making her thoughts tick-tock.Yennefer can’t stand her dramatics. But this is not her show. Triss, Philippa and Sabrina stand with her around the table, all watching the pale woman with tight focus.  
“This is not negotiable.” Triss says, her features schooled into a careful mask. “No.”  
Philippa looks angry, mouth thinning out even more when she presses her lips together.  
“Too bad.” Says the woman. “I had hoped that at least one of you,” the woman makes a deliberate pause, giving Philippa a look. _Interesting._ “-would not mind what I have to offer. But I can see when I have worn out my welcome.”  
She stands up, the wood scraping against the stone floor. Yennefer notices the woman's finger twitching, an even rhythm again. Odd. Almost as if she is compelled to do it.  
The woman nods to each of them in farewell, turns her back to them and reaches for the door.  
The nerve. The arrogance.  
Yennefer fights the scowl that threatens to break out. The show is not over yet.  
When the door is open, the woman stops at the threshold without turning.  
“If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me, Philippa.”  
And with a click of the door, she is gone. The room seems to exhale, the tap-tap-tapping tension gone and the four mages turn to each other.

“She sure seems to know you.” Sabrina comments, and all attention is on Philippa, who sighs and shakes her head.  
“Basia and I have a past.” Is all she offers, walking around the table and with a wave of her hands seals the door with magic. It glimmers, ripples, like rain upon the surface of a pond. “I don’t like that she is here. We need to find out what she’s been up to. That woman tends to leave a lot of dead bodies in her wake.”  
Triss folds her arms across her chest and looks troubled.  
“And the fact that she is in these parts makes it our problem.” She says, looking around the table. “I don’t like it. She is a loose cannon.”  
“I agree. Triss, look into any disappearances or anything out of the ordinary. Yennefer, Sabrina, I need you to go find her workshop. I have some people to talk to.”  
Philippa throws around authority in a way Yennefer has never cared for, but for once she is willing to agree.

~~

Jaskier carefully rises from the dirt into a sitting position. Slowly getting control over his limbs again, regaining feeling. He is stiff, sore, his mouth tastes like ash. He’s not sure where he is, only that it’s quickly getting dark. The trees around him are old and there is the distinct smell of disturbed earth. He notices his feet are bare and he is wearing the same clothes he took a nap in. His pinkie throbs as badly as the day they cut it off.  
This can’t be good. He looks down, examining the soles of his feet. They are pale, small cuts here and there, pine needles and leaves sticking to his skin. But no blood.  
There is a sinking sensation in his gut. His throat is tightening and his eyes are prickling. It looks wrong. Feels wrong. Fuck, why is this happening?  
Jaskier rubs at his feet, trying to regain some feeling. It takes a moment, but a small prickling sensation starts in his toes, traveling along his nerves. It’s not a very good feeling, but it gives him hope.  
He swallows around the lump in his throat, trying to ignore the pain of the tugging, trying to control his breathing. His heart is trying to pull him with it, trying to get him to move.  
The feeling is urgent, but no. He is back, he has control of himself again. He is not going there. The fear is like icy spears, keeping him sane.  
Maybe he can retrace his steps? It doesn’t look like he was careful while getting here. But no. He is no tracker, he would only get more lost.  
Jaskier curls into a ball against a tree trunk and hugs his legs. Hopes Geralt finds him before any scavengers do.

The sound of shuffling and battle wakes Jaskier. The stars are up by now, and there is a deep darkness among the trees. There is a yelp from what sounds like a dog or a wolf, and a grunt. A very familiar grunt. A heavy thud of a body falling to the ground, heavy breathing, and then shuffling steps.  
“Jaskier?!” Geralt calls.  
Relief. The relief is so strong air rushes from his lungs and he scrambles to stand up.  
“Geralt!” He rasps out, and then Geralt rushes towards him, arms open.  
That’s all it takes for Jaskier to break. A sob tears from him, and he throws himself stiffly into Geralt's chest. Arms wrap tightly around him, holding him close. Geralt is so warm, and Jaskier finally feels safe.  
Whatever is tugging him somewhere won’t get to him when Geralt is here.  
“What happened?” Geralt asks into his hair, squeezing him tighter.  
“I don’t know. It’s all blank.” Jaskiers ear is pressed over Geralt's chest. Geralt’s heartbeat is normally slow. Right now it’s beating hard, faster than he ever heard it before.  
“The door was open. Your shoes were still there. I couldn’t scent you, at all! I almost thought-... but then I saw your tracks. How can I not smell you?”  
Then Geralt took a sniff of his hair. Which a year ago would make him laugh and his heart flutter. Now, it scares him. What if he smells like death?  
“You have no smell. They took your smell.” Geralt whispers. And then again “What happened?”  
Jaskier doesn't know what to say.  
“I don’t know. I went to bed for a nap, and then I woke up here. I have no idea how I got here.”  
“Can you walk?”  
“I think so.”  
Reluctantly Jaskier lets go and follows Geralt back towards the inn. They pass the bodies of three wolves, and another spike of fear pierces him.  
It’s a long walk. It takes them the better part of an hour to see the shape of the town through the trees. They walk in silence and instead of knocking to be let in, they settle in the stable with Roach. It’s dark in there too, but Geralt moves around without hesitation and sits Jaskier down on a footstool in a corner. He fetches a blanket used for the horses and wraps it around Jaskier’s shoulders. It’s slightly scratchy and hairy, and smells strongly of horse.  
Geralt kneels in front of him and touches Jaskier’s bare feet.  
“You are freezing.” Geralt says softly. “May I?”  
Jaskier nods and Geralt lifts one foot up on his leg and tries to rub warmth into them. Jaskier’s shoulders are tense, his eyes downcast. Geralt looks up at him with a frown.  
“It’s alright.” He murmurs. “I had blackouts in the beginning too. They will pass. I'm here for you.”

Jaskier nods again, but he knows that wasn’t it. This was the string calling him. And he was helpless to it.


	6. Chapter 6

Yennefer and Sabrina walk next to each other. Their heels are clicking against the stone floor and the sounds echoes against the walls and low hanging ceiling above. They carry a flame each, the light flickering against their palm and between their fingers.  
It is cold. And damp. A fucking horrible place. It reeks of magic, sour and rotten. Sabrina wrinkles her nose as they get deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels. The deeper in they get, the thicker the waft of foul magic is. She is not familiar with this smell, this stench, that sticks to the walls.

There should be rats around, scuttling along the walls. But everything is bare. Empty. Everything alive in here had fled long ago, either out of the exit or by some form of death.  
With a start, Yennefer is reminded of her first nights at Aretuza, when she, too, tried to escape. She almost feels the cold, cutting sting of the mirror on her wrists, almost feels the hotness of her blood trickling down. Only that place was built on life. This place died long ago.

“What do you make of her? Basia?” She is tugged out of her thoughts by Sabrina's voice.  
“I'm not sure. Philipa is usually closemouthed but this was something else. She stank of dark magic.” Yennefer says. “Much like this place.”  
“She should have told us more before she sent us down here.” Sabrina mutters, sending glares around her at the naked walls.  
Yennefer agrees, but there is no point in moaning about it. There is a bend in the path and they are met with a solid stone wall. Sabrina snorts.  
“Subtle.” They take a look around, finding nothing that makes them suspect a trap. Yennefer drags a gloved hand over the stone, fingers coming away damp with condensation. She finds one that sticks out just a fraction.  
When she pushes it back into place there is a click, and the wall that blocked their path retracts. She raises an eyebrow at the dramatics of having a secret door in a hidden cave. Seems a bit excessive, honestly. Tacky, like this person is trying to be villain of the week. It’s a simple enough trick, and they carry on their trek.  
There is nothing more blocking their path, no more hindrance. Almost too easy. Doors start appearing on their way, heavy wooden doors.  
Some of them seem to be holding cells, another a laboratory. They enter it and find crystals, feathers, ash and body parts.  
The tip of a finger lies in a copper bowl, fingernail cracked with blood still on it. Yennefer frowns at it, picking up a wooden spoon and turning it around. The skin on the fingertip is cut off. She holds out her own hand next to it in comparison. Looks like a piece of pinkie.  
“Seems like they had someone here recently. It hasn't started rotting yet.” She remarks, casually dropping the spoon and trying not to wipe her hands on her dress There is no blood on the bench around it however. She sees no signs of maiming in this room.

Looking out in the corridor again she looks through the cells. Only one shows signs of having had an inhabitant, blood and sick smeared across the stone. The straw is moldy, black and grey. But no shackles, no sign of what has been happening. Just the stale smell of decay.  
“Yennefer.” Sabrina calls from two rooms away. As Yennefer enters the room she stops and takes in the scene.  
Ah, this is where the main event happened.

In the middle of the room there is a big stone slab, shackles and chains attached to its sides. Along the wall there are more benches and rows upon rows with instruments and blades, pokers and pliers. Bowls sit neatly in a row, clean and well kept. Everything but the slab is neat and clean.  
“I guess Basia doesn’t treat her guests too well.” Yennefer comments, walking up the the torture table. The blood splatter is in layers, some older and some more recent. Someone had a really bad time in here.  
For some peculiar reason, there is a lock of hair lying near the head of the stone.  
Dark brown, a bit of a curl on the end. She takes off her glove and reaches for it with her bare hand, hoping to pick something up. A memory, a feeling, a face.  
It’s brittle between her fingers. Dry and a little dirty. She puts it back down at the stone, her bare fingers touching the smooth, cold surface.

Pain lance through her. It burns, darting up her arm, a ringing in her ears, a tearing sensation. It hurts so bad she have to hold back a scream.

She snatches her hand back and holds it to her chest, staring at the stone. One of the shackles rattles to the floor, making Sabrina turn to look at her.  
“You good?”  
“Yes. I... it’s.... Don’t touch the stone. The pain lingers.” Sabrina nods her understanding and turns back towards a bookcase at the end of the room.  
“Find anything?” Yennefer asks, swallowing thickly. The fear she felt was not hers, nor the pain. The ringing slowly dies down, and she looks up at the cracked stone ceiling.  
“Not much. If this was Basias hideout she didn’t leave anything sensitive behind.” Sabrina takes out a book and skims through a few pages. “Doesn’t seem like she kept more than one...guest at the time here, though.”  
“What makes you say that?” Yennefer, gathering herself before she joins Sabrina.  
“Look.” The other woman points on one of the pages. Rows after neat rows of writing, lists of ingredients in different combinations, and dates. This has been going on for a while.  
But something doesn’t sit right.  
All of this was too easy. Almost deliberate.  
Sabrina twists around with a sharp intake of breath, staring out in the empty room around them. Somewhere in the halls there is a growl and a loud moan.  
Something is coming. Something foul smelling and big.


	7. Chapter 7

Jaskier sits in the bath while Geralt is preparing for the hunt. The water is steaming hot and Jaskier almost feels like himself again. There is a bar of soap on the table next to him. Jaskier wanted to go to the market before getting in, meaning to buy himself some scented soaps. But Geralt was relentless, all but throwing him in the tub with clothes and all.  
For once it was Jaskier begging for privacy. For once he is too conscious about his own body. Geralt gave him an odd look before walking out and leaving him to it.  
A relief and a loss at the same time. Alone with his thoughts and the tugging, there is nothing else to focus on.  
No. Fuck this. She will not take this from him as well.  
Jaskier picks up the soap, lathers it up, and scrubs himself, dedicated to give himself a scent, even if it is cheap soap. He hums under his breath, singing a soft lullaby to keep everything at bay.  
It feels nice. The vibration of his voice in his chest, the heat, the sense of getting clean again. Pieces of bark and pine needles fall from his hair into the water and that will not do.

When Jaskier leaves the room, one of the maids approaches him with a flirty smile.  
“You have a lovely voice.” She says, blinking and looking up at him through his lashes. She is pretty, freckles decorating her nose and cheeks, her eyes a warm brown, breasts heavy.  
She takes a step closer and puts a hand on his chest, right over his heart.  
“I wonder, would you sing for me?” She asks him, voice low and seductive. He would. He wants to. Almost.  
“I uh… have my companion waiting for me upstairs.” Jaskier manages to get out, curling a strand of wet hair behind his ear. The maid blinks, clearly not expecting that answer.  
“Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn’t realize you had an arrangement.” She says, reclaiming her hand and backing away. Jaskier doesn’t get a chance to correct her before she red cheeked hurries back to her tasks.  
Ah, well. Not that he minds in the least, but Geralt will likely be a bit bothered about the missconception. Jaskier slowly makes his way towards their room, soft slippers on his feet.  
He feels more like himself now, more in control. He wonders what it would have been like to kiss the maid. To touch her, and her to touch him.  
He thinks of her hand on his chest, small and soft. Her eyes warm and a deep brown. He almost walks straight into the door of their room, so lost in thought.  
Jaskier absently ruffles his hair when he steps inside, and is met with a terrible smell. He wrinkles his nose when he sits down on their bed. Ugh, potions.  
“Alright?” Geralt asks him from where he sits on the floor. It’s unfair how Geralt still after a night of no sleeping still can look so good.  
“The maid downstairs wanted me to sing for her. In her room.”  
“Oh.” Geralt pauses the grinding of...whatever it is, Jaskier would rather not know actually, and looks up at him. “You didn’t go with her?”  
“I thought about it.” Jaskier admits. “But I’d rather be with you.”  
It takes Jaskier a moment to listen to his own words, busy with fiddling with his hands. And then he feels himself blushing and quickly looking up at Geralt, who looks right back with a surprised look on his face.  
“Ah. That came out wrong.” Jaskier says hurriedly. “But you know what I mean.”  
Geralt clears his throat, looks down and starts grinding that something again.  
“Yeah. I still have to finish that wraith though.” Geralt tells the thing in the bowl meeting its demise through mortel violence. Geralt is going to drink that. Jaskier will never understand how he manages.  
“I won’t be in the way.”  
“I know.”  
Jaskier will be in the way. They both know it, because somehow trouble is drawn to him. But it will be alright. They are both still here, aren’t they?  
They sit in comfortable silence for a while.

Jaskier misses his lute, so he crawls up on the bed instead and watches Geralt work. His hands are big, scarred, capable.  
Now Jaskier thinks about those hands on his chest. Big, instead of small. Rough instead of soft. Amber eyes studying him instead of warm brown.  
Oh no. Time to rein in those thoughts and push them right back down. No need to go back that path again. That hurt good enough back on the mountain. No need to to poke at the wound just because he is being nice now.  
Jaskier curls under the blankets and hides. It’s enough that Geralt is here, watching over him. Even if the tugging takes him, Geralt will be here. Geralt won’t let him go.  
And finally feeling warm again, finally feeling safe, Jaskier falls asleep.

The moon is high in the sky, clouds dancing bringing it in and out of view. Perfect for a night at the graveyard, mingling around the gravestones. Jaskier is sitting inside the holy house in the middle of the graveyard, perched in a windowsill looking out. That is the safest place for him to be right now, while the wraith is about to appear.  
Geralt sits outside the door, meditating while waiting. It should appear any minute now, manifesting between the graves. Jaskier leans his forehead against the cold window, wishing he knew how to meditate too.  
This is their first hunt since… then. Since he got out. Jaskier is a little nervous about it, despite not being the one doing anything. It shouldn’t be that hard of a fight, but one never knows.  
If Geralt gets hurt, he is not sure how he would do.  
There is a sound outside. A hissing, crawling sound. It’s here.  
It takes but a moment for Geralt to appear into view, sword brandished and armor well strapped. The sword is gleaming in the cold moon light, and not for the first time Jaskier wishes he had brought his notebook.  
It’s not the first time he has watched Geralt fight a wraith, and he is familiar with the way it dissolves and reappears behind the witcher. The lantern it’s holding is gleaming eerily, lighting Geralt's features and scars. He looks powerful, beautiful even. White hair flowing when he turns to slash his sword, throw Yrden to keep it in place.  
If Jaskier wasn’t resurrected, or whatever this is, would he have turned into a wraith? A ghoul? Something angry and hungry, something that Geralt might take a contract to end?  
Possibly. That silver sword thrust into his chest, putting him back into the cold darkness that is death.  
Outside, he can hear Geralt's grunt of pain. The wraith lands a hit over his shoulder, and Geralt wasn’t fast enough to parry. Fuck.  
Jaskier sits up and watches the fight a little closer. Another blow from the wraith, clawing against his face. Jaskier can only see the back of it from here, towering over Geralt.  
Then a sword pierce right through it, a loud scream and it folds in on itself, disappears.  
Geralt is breathing hard and slowly letting his sword slowly sink towards the ground.  
Jaskier is on his feet before he knows it, running through the doors and out, out to his witcher. Blood is trickling from Geralt's brow, it’s a small wound but they always bleed a lot when it’s on the face. Jaskier knows.  
Geralt watches him approach, watches him stop right in front of him, watches Jaskiers hand reach up and softly touch his cheek.  
Jaskier grabs Geralt's chin, turning his head to look at the wound. It doesn’t look too bad, probably won’t need stitches.  
“How are your ribs?” Jaskier asks quietly, turning Geralt's face the other way to inspect for more damage. His heart is beating loudly, not only from the adrenaline of the fight.  
It’s never a given that Geralt will allow being looked after. And truthfully, Jaskier doesn’t push it too much. Being allowed now really tells how far they have come.  
“Sore.” Geralt replies, taking a step back to roll his shoulders.  
“Did you even take the potion? It beat you up more than usual today.”  
“Hm.”  
“Don’t you _hmm_ me, witcher.”  
Geralt turns his back and puts his sword away.  
“Was a bit distracted.” he mutters and bends down to pick at the remains of the wraith for something to bring back as proof.  
And Jaskier stands there in the moonlight, pushing down hard on those burning feelings that want to be the reason why.


	8. Chapter 8

Damn this fucking cave, damn this fucking dungeon and damn fucking Basia. Yennefer knew it was too easy. Knew things served on a silver platter means trap.  
And the trap is running behind them, slamming into a wall as it skids around the corner. The flesh of it slaps against the stone, a wet and slimy sound that makes her feel sick. Sabrina runs in front of her, blasting away debris in their way as they flee.  
“We need to portal out of here!” She pants, and Yennefer knows, she fucking knows. She is however rather busy, casting spell after spell to make the thing keep its distance.  
It rages on after them. She guesses she knows where the rats went. Patches of the things skin is covered in fur, matted and bloodied. There are brown and grey fluids leaking from its skin and its gaping mouth, and its madness pushes against her senses.  
“Is this what they created on that slab?” Sabrina pants , throwing yet another hex over her shoulder.  
“Might be.” Yennefer pants back. “But it doesn’t feel like this is what she wanted. Or she should have brought it with her.”  
“Watch out, I'm taking down the ceiling.”  
They run down a corridor and Yennefer throws a barrier between the thing and them. The smell is almost overpowering, the rot and death oozing from it even through her magic.  
Sabrina throws her hands towards the ceiling in front of them, speaks some words in elder, and pulls the air downwards.  
The stone responds, cracking and breaking and a thundurus roar drowns out every sound when it caves in, blocking the path between them and the thing.  
As the dust settles, the women catch their breath.  
“We need to seal this place.” Yennefer says, and Sabrina nods her agreement.  
They work quickly, setting up the strongest barrier they can manage. This thing cannot get out. It is far from civilisation, but if this creature gets out, there is no telling what havoc it will wreck. 

Yennefer is grateful for the foresight of putting up a portaling circle in the lodge. She feels drained, muscles heavy with effort when she steps through it and into the safety of their house. She is filthy, dust and sweat sticking to her like a second skin, clothes more grey than black.  
“Ugh! Where the hell have you been?” Philippa greets them, pinching her nose when the stench greets her in turn. “You smell like death!”  
“Basia has been busy, it would seem.” Sabrina replies, fishing up the book she somehow snagged from the torture chamber when they ran. Philippa takes it, flipping through pages quickly. Yennefer dusts off her pants and settles on a chair around the table. All she wants is a bath and a change. And sleep.  
“We met her experiment. It was set up nicely, easy to get into, clean enough for us to go looking for clues while it sneaked up on us.” Yennefer adds. “And someone was kept there recently.”  
“Could that someone be the experiment?” Philippa asks, putting the book down with a furrowed brow. She tugs at her braids, as she often does when distracted about a thought.  
“Possibly, or a former prisoner. Got the impression she stayed until she was done.” Yennefer says, and Sabrina nods her agreement.   
“I found a piece of a finger, still in a good shape, and hair on a bloodied slab.” Yennefer pushes back a shiver when the ghost of the pain dances through her memory.“ The pain lingered, so whatever was going on there was some dark shit.”  
Philippa stares at the table, scratching her nails against the wood. She looks lost in thought, and Yennefer doesn’t like it one bit.  
“You need to tell us why she knows you. Why she seeked us out. Because this was very much intentional, and you know it. Had either of us gone alone we might have died.” Yennefer says, and to her surprise Philippa actually nods.  
“When Triss is back we will meet here again. There are some books I need to find to confirm my suspicions. Impressive that she has stayed undetected this long.”  
“Or she had help.” Sabrina says, brow furrowed in worry. “It was too clean, more than one persons handwriting in the book. We need more information.”  
“And to end that experiment of hers.” Yennefer adds. She is not squeamish, but that thing reeked of wrong, of dark magic. She hopes it stays in there, that what they did was enough, because if it got out there is no telling what could happen.  
“All in good time. We will meet back here again tonight, take a good rest until then. We have a long night ahead of us.”

And a long night it turns out to be.   
Triss returns during the afternoon, looking almost as bad as Yennefer feels. It would seem someone doesn’t want people to ask around, and she had to fight her way through the sewers.  
“Why is all of your meetingplaces in the fucking sewers?” Yen asks her when she appears.  
“I ask myself that all the time. But I suppose that is where these rats feel safe.” Triss says back, heavily implying that they are not. For Triss to look this beat up, there should be quite the body count down there in the morning, and Yennefer has to smirk.

Philippa joins them in their meeting room that night. It's now dark outside, candelabras shining along the walls and giving it all a rather dramatic mood. Sabrina sits stiffly in her chair, hands folded neatly in her lap. Triss and Yennefer stands by the wall, arms crossed and in a foul mood.   
“So” Philippa begins, again sealing the door behind her with that glimmering surface. “What did you learn, Triss?”  
If Triss is offended with being ordered about, she doesn’t show it.  
“It is mostly beggars and thugs that have gone missing in these parts. My contacts were twitchy, claiming a sorceress was behind it, that she had been seen on the outskirts of town. They jumped me as I tried to leave.” Triss makes a disgusted kind of snort. “There is very little else to learn, at least within the town borders. I have made arrangements to get news from other contacts around the kingdom.”  
Philippa nods, looking thoughtful.  
“I assume you have been filled in on what Sabrina and Yennefer found?” Philippa asks and Yen and Triss share a look. They talked before coming down here, and they both agree on something not adding up.  
“I have.” Triss agrees. “And we are still waiting for what you have learned from your people.”  
Philippa leans forward, folding her hands in front of her face.  
“She has been sighted in several courts across the continents. None has been able to connect her to peoples disappearing, but she has been noticed. A young mage, fresh out of Ban Ard has gone missing. There is no proof, but Basia was seen around those parts at the time of the disappearance. She might have recruited him.”  
“Or killed him.” Sabrina adds, eyes dark from whatever it was they left behind in that cave.   
“Possible.” Philippa agrees. “But I think she would have more use of a fresh, imprintable mind than a dead one.”  
“Why would she think you would be interested, Philippa?” Triss asks, a hint of accusation in her voice. She never liked having to deal with dark magic. Yennefer has chosen not to tell her about her own dealings with it, but Triss probably knows anyway. Philippa sits quietly for a moment, not looking at any of them.  
“I was, once.” she admits. “I met Basia many, many years ago. We had some common interests back then, and truth be told we dabbled into necromancy. She snared me in with promises of control, of power. But where I saw danger, she saw potential.”  
For Philippa to find something too dangerous, it is not something that comes up much. But the proof of it sits there in the tunnels, too close for Yennefer to actually feel comfortable about it. Triss looks vaguely disgusted but doesn’t interrupt.  
“She disappeared on me one day. It turns out that she had killed fifteen of my king's guards and done gruesome things to the bodies. Only, they weren’t entirely dead. When we burned them, they screamed.”  
Philippas gaze is locked on the candles, memories bringing her far away.   
“We kept finding bodies. It went so far that my own king sent me out after Basia, wanting me to end her. And I tried.”  
The silence in the room is thick, waiting.  
“I cast a curse on her. Her own curse, rippling with dark magic and wild chaos. I thought I stopped her, because she disappeared.”  
“It would seem you did not.” Sabrina says quietly, and Philippa nods.  
“Indeed not. It is very likely she was here to test the waters, so set bait and see if we would bite. And we did.”  
“Then let's show her how hard we bite.” Yennefer mutters.  
“We need to prepare.” Triss says. “And we need to talk to our kings.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more pining, panic and just a lil gore.
> 
> Also, next chapter is going to go rather dark...  
> Take care of yourself <3

They pick up the lute two days later. The shopkeeper had asked if he wanted something specific, but Jaskier declined. He wanted to see what she would make of it.  
She painted it modestly, beautifully. Small details, modest little flowers mostly hidden under the carved soundhole. Yellow and blue and red and white.  
“It’s perfect.” Jaskier croaks out when she shows him, stroking with a light finger across the wooden neck. The varnish is so perfect he can almost see his reflection on its smooth surface.  
The shopkeeper is glowing, leaning over the desk and watching his expression.  
There is this warm, wonderful feeling inside knowing he will be able to play again.  
“Can I try her? Before we go?”  
“Please do,” she says and again she points him to the little stool along the wall.  
He starts out with a few accords. He has to adjust his grip to make up for the now shorter finger, but he figures it out. Humming and strumming and feeling like the world is complete again.  
The shopkeeper looks over at Geralt and Jaskier looks too. He is leaning against the wall, arms crossed and smiling.  
Jaskiers heart stutters and his cheeks warm, so he looks back at the lute.  
“It’s almost like she was waiting for you to come along.” The shopkeeper comments. “I have been working with this one for a long time, but never managed to finish it until now. It feels like destiny.”  
Geralt harrumphs in the background and Jaskier cracks a smile.  
“Could be.” Jaskier agrees. They put it back in the case, the shopkeeper patting it lovingly.  
They make the first payment and bid her farewell, for now.  
An hour later they ride out. There is talk among the villagers about things happening, about people disappearing two villages away. Geralt asked around, and it sounds like there might be a contract for him there.  
Roach is well rested after a few days in the stable, eager to be out and about again. Wilk, however, does not share her sentiment. Jaskier kicks him in the sides, urging him to keep up. Wilk is more interested in grass and greens.  
Geralt gives him one of those infuriating smirks again, and everything flutters inside. Jaskier struggles to stay on the road and stay in the saddle both, Geralt and Wilk teaming up to make things hard for him.

They make camp at a crossroad, some other travelers already having pitched their tents and settling in for the evening. Jaskier plays his lute in front of the fire, singing softly, enjoying every moment.

Three songs and two suggestions in, he zones out. His eyes linger in the fire, echoes of sizzling metal and a burning pain. His fingers get stiff, sweat forming at his hairline.

Geralt's hand on his shoulder makes him jump, he didn’t notice him walk up behind him. The scream catches in his throat, heart tugging hard.  
He stares up with wide eyes at Geralt, clutching his lute to his chest.  
“Maybe we should retire for the night.” Geralt suggests softly, nodding towards a tent a kind couple borrowed them. Jaskier nods, trying hard not to hyperventilate.  
“Are you alright?” One of the travelers asks, an elderly man with a receding hairline. Jaskier nods again, trying to smile, returning his lute to the case in stiff movements.  
Geralt puts a hand on his back when they walk towards the tent, and Jaskier appreciates it greatly. It grounds him to the now, keeps the old sensations at bay. He tries to focus on it, leans back just a little to the pressure. Geralt notices, of course he does, and splays his fingers a bit wider.  
Jaskier puts the case next to the bedroll, not even kicking off his shoes before he crumbles to his knees.  
Geralt is right there, catching him, drawing him close.  
“Im here.” He soothes. Geralt is wearing his armor, it’s cool against Jaskiers forehead. “Want to tell me about it?”  
“Just got too close to the fire.” Jaskier murmurs. He gives in to the urge and wrapping his arms around Geralt, seeking comfort.  
“Hmm.” Geralt says, predictably, and it is so completely Geralt that Jaskier has to smile again. It feels good, within all the chaos that swirls in him, to still be allowed this.  
Geralt's hands trace patterns on his back, his neck, and slowly he calms down.  
“It doesn’t get as bad anymore.” Jaskier says quietly to Geralt's shoulder.  
“Good.” Geralt's shoulder tells him.  
For long minutes they sit there. The burning fear is replaced with butterflies, and no. He can’t.  
He sits back, not looking at Geralt, clearing his throat.  
“Thank you.” Jaskier turns and starts working on his boots.  
“Always.” Geralt says and it is terrifying. Always.  
Behind him, Geralt removes his armor, his own boots, and they lie down. Jaskier pretends he can see the stars through the canvas until he falls asleep.

It is a few days' travel to the possible contract. But there are a lot of people to talk to, and a lot of information to gather. There is something in the woods. It takes woodcutters and nobles alike. Three people, last they heard, and all that remains a bloody mess in the undergrowth. They say it is something dead. Something big and foul smelling.  
A lot of it is exaggerations, of course, but there is real fear in their eyes. 

Arriving at the village is both a blessing and a curse.  
An unnatural mist hangs around the forest, and the smell is indeed foul. Dead.  
They find lodging easily, the relief written on the eldermans face when he learns of Geralt's presence. It is nice to have a mattress to lay on, a roof over his head. But there is a feeling, something inside Jaskier that feels wrong. He felt it the moment the mist came into view. The silence is eerie. The people are subdued, the nature silent. It sends creeps up his spine.  
They get two rooms, but Jaskier… doesn’t like it.  
That first night, Jaskier comes knocking on Geralt's door. When the door opens Geralt takes one look at him and invites him inside.  
“Are you alright?”  
“Yes. I just… Can I stay with you?” Jaskier doesn’t do puppy eyes. He doesn’t.  
Geralt snorts and walks deeper into the room.  
“Fine. But you take the floor.” Geralt sits down on the bed, which is clearly wide enough for two people. His things are neatly put away to one side, as if he made room for one more.  
It flutters inside again, but no, he pushes it down. Geralt wouldn’t expect him to come, would he?  
“Rude!” Jaskier complains, hiding his hopeful fantasy behind indignation. “It’s like you want me to suffer!  
Geralt shrugs, fluffs his pillow and lies down.  
“You got a perfectly fine bed in your room.” he says, closing his eyes and smiling mockingly. He does. Only it's big, and it is lonely, and it is inviting that empty, heavy feeling and he hates it.  
“My room has a draft.” he lies and Geralt chuckles.  
“I'm sure the floor in here will be nicer to you then.”  
“Bastard.” Jaskier mutters, turning to leave.  
“Jaskier.” Geralt says, just before Jaskier walks out. “Fetch your things.”  
Jaskiers ears burn hot, Geralt's voice is low and gravely. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.  
But he fetches his things, and when he returns Geralt has made room for him on the bed.  
Jaskier puts his things in the empty space Geralt left him and creeps down under the covers in the spot he vacated.  
His heart is tugging hard, so loud in his own ears that he worries Geralt will hear it. Sleep finally claims him , and when the morning comes Jaskier finds himself hugging Geralt's back.

They don't talk about it, of course not. They simply get up and get on with their day. They are served a rather grey porridge, but it is tastier than it looks with a bit of butter on top.

They go to see the alderman soon thereafter, Jaskier close in Geralt's footsteps. The man is barrel chested, his hands are big and his eyes are sharp. His wife stands at his side, almost half the height of her husband but just as wide. Jaskier thinks they both look a little pale, eyes red rimmed. They probably lost someone to whatever is out there. A third man stands by the door, equipped with a bow and arrow and a hunting knife.  
“I don’t know much, but it’s been a week since the last victim.” The alderman says. “First two were the young lady of the manor and her… her guard.” The alderman pauses, looks up and blinks away some angry tears. His wife looks down, pressing her eyes tightly together. So very likely their son then.  
The man with the bow by the door takes over, mercifully.  
“The last body was the baker's oldest son. He went for firewood and never came home. We still haven’t found all of him.”  
All of him.  
Jaskiers stomach turns, he has to fight the urge to grab a hold of Geralt's arm. That wouldn't look very professional.  
“Can you show me?” Geralt asks the man, the huntmaster by the looks of him. The huntmaster nods, and Geralt turns to the couple. There is no haggling about the price, not yet. He nods towards them too, and then leaves without another word. Jaskier follows behind, unsure if he really wants to go inside the mist. Instead of thinking about it, he just trails behind, staying close to Geralt. With him, he is safe.

They start where the guard and the young lady were killed. It is easy to see where their bodies had been, the grass sick and dead around it. Geralt pokes around, Jaskier can tell when he uses his witcher senses. His pupils change, his posture stiffens, focus as sharp as a tip of a needle. Jaskier stands back with the huntmaster, trying to stay quiet.  
The forest is silent around them, no birds, rustling of leaves, nothing. His thumping pulse is loud in his own ears and the ringing soft and constant. Jaskier wonders if Geralt can hear the ringing too. It would be interesting and very odd, he muses.  
When Geralt is done they move on to the latest one. It is deeper into the woods, the trees thick crowns blocking out the light of the day. The shadows and the mist swirls around them, every sound they make sounds muted and far away.

The ground looks much the same here. It looks wounded where the body had been. In some places there are still dark stains of blood.  
“A week, you said?” Geralt asks the huntmaster, kneeling down and digging in the dirt with a dagger.  
“Six days, master witcher.” The man agrees, watching every move Geralt makes with rapt attention.  
“You said you didn’t find all of him. What is missing?” Geralt wipes his blade on the grass that is still green. As soon as the black residue touches it, it wrinkles up, loses color and shrinks. Dies.  
“Hard to say. We could account for all limbs but a finger. The insides were too mushed up to really identify. The village healer is working on it though.”  
Geralt nods and Jaskier wants to throw up.

Then there is a sinking sensation in Jaskiers body. He can see Geralt's lips moving, but all he hears is the ringing. The tugging in his chest feels like yanking, and his knees almost buckles.

“It’s coming.” He whispers.

Geralt's head whips around and stares at him.

Then comes the stench.

The foul reeking of something dead.

**Author's Note:**

> Come shriek at me on Tumblr! Im Dapandapod <3


End file.
